Lists:

I love lists. Many of my entries in my writer’s journal are lists.

I have lists of words I love, words I use too often, words I don’t know the meaning of, new words, favorite words to say, to read…just favorite words, good words, bad words. (I love bad words, they’re so…descriptive.)

 I keep lists of descriptive words, color words, action words, tag words, landscape words, plant words, texture words, scent words, emotion words.

I make lists of places to go, where I’ve been, stores to check out, character names, books to read, authors to check out, books I’ve read, books to buy and a favorite: lists of quotes. Lists of book quotes, writing quotes, garden quotes, encouragement quotes, pet quotes and just plain quotes.

Lists of wants, needs, wishes, to dos, dones, priorities, bills, titles or ideas for projects, projects, flowers and seeds to buy and grocery lists.

Memory lists, lists of things I need to include in each new writing project, lists that end up poems. All these lists end up in my journal in a nice vertical way with a bullet point at the beginning of each new line. The sight pleases me, eases my mind that I’m somewhat in control of all the chaos in my writer’s mind.

Lists organize my life, keep me straight on my tasks for the day, what I need to buy, what I need to write, research, things I need to think about, things I need to include in a piece I’m wirting. Lists help me push my mind to think of more, better, most important.

Lists jump starts my writing day, whether I use a list from my journal or make a new one.

I love to scratch off chores or groceries as I put them in my cart, titles I’ve used. No smart phone for me. I want the paper, the pencil, the line drawn across the page. I want simple, available, physical.

Lists are among my best writer’s tools and fit perfectly in my writer’s journal. 

Writing Journal: Finding Detail

I’m reading along, enjoying a book, the description, the dialogue, the plot, then the writer does something that grabs me viscerally, snags my gut, or heart, or the base of my throat…Then,  he/she does it again and again, until I’m there in that scene.

That writer has me…for as long as he keeps writing, if he never forgets that one thing: Detail.

Small, perfect details that crack open a scene or emotion. Details that have me whispering to myself, yes, that’s real, that’s exactly what that feels like, looks like, is. I know that, I’ve felt that, I’ve heard, smelled, tasted that, exactly. Or, I’ve never felt that, tasted that, smelled that, but now I know what it’s like and I’ve lived this other life.

Isn’t that why we read?

However, details can be hard to come by. I know. I’ve been trying to get the little details into my current book as I rewrite because there are places that feel flat. But how do I go about finding details about the old west when my life and experience is far from that? Oh, I can imagine, but I need to know, but that isn’t enough.

How do I turn my observations into enough, the just right ones? What details can I truly research? What do I have to find out for myself?

What I’ve figured out is I wish I’d done a better job of keeping my writer’s journal. There are good reasons why I didn’t, but now, I need to pull out faded memories in search of details from those busy years when my boys were small. When I was dragging them to museums, nature workshops, scouting events and I need to pluck those memories from moments I was just trying to keep track of three boys, keep peace, keep sane.

Research helps, but only so much, so re-experience has become the best I can do. Even then, the writer’s journal is crucial, because some details are so fleeting. Sometimes observations go by too quickly, my notes too vague and general. Being specific when you are moving through an experience is difficult. I’ve found that’s ok, if you write briefly and include a list of observations and quick impressions.

I’ve had to teach myself to do this and often, the way I do it in my journal is with haiku and lists. I remind myself to pay attention, think small. Think specific. Think specific to what the POV character experiences, notices. 

So, I'm trying to use my journal. To write in it every day. I'm trying to spend more time noticing the little things in my day. I'm looking, feeling, smelling...living with attention.

Crochet/Cross-stitching a Story

I grew up surrounded by women whose hands were never idle when they watched TV or ‘relaxed.’ My mother was a wonderful knitter and sewer, my best friend’s mom crocheted and embroidered, my grandma did every kind of handwork: knitting, crocheting, embroidery, cutwork, cross-stitch. Needlework was required for the girls in our church starting at the age of twelve. I was pitiful at it, too impatient and then, too ashamed by my finished project, a pitiful mess, from the stamped cross-stitch sampler to the crocheted purse to the knitted covered hanger, to want to ever try again.

Later, when my friends and I started filling hope chests I revisited needlework. I’d learned patience, at least a bit. (I’ve since learned, patience is an ongoing skill a person never completely masters.) It was my brilliant idea that for birthdays and Christmas we’d exchange things for our hope chests, preferably homemade. And it was a great idea, at least, I’ve thought so over the years.

What a wonderful thing that all these years later I still have tea towels and dresser scarves embroidered by childhood friends (some of which I haven’t seen since) as I began married life. I still have stacks of tea towels and pillowcases, so I never truly forget these wonderful friends. And it got us to learn handwork and figure out that hand-made things are the best gifts.

About this same time, I registered for a homemaking arts class for my senior year of high school. At the time I had no idea how much this class would help me find a safe, soft place to land every day in a hellish year. That year was profound for me. I lost my father and spent much of the year lost and adrift. I worried about my mother and found myself helping her make some pretty adult decision. That hour a day of quiet and discovering the importance of being still and doing something physical but intent like handwork centered me, saved me.  

Over the years, I’ve come to depend on handwork to work through problems in my own life or in my writing. More, I’ve come to appreciate how the slow progress of one row of crochet after another, over time, makes a whole afghan. One cross-stitch at a time ends up with a sampler worthy of hanging on my walls. That knowledge helps me face the daunting beginnings of a novel with less fear. I know word upon word makes a sentence, makes a paragraph, makes a chapter. I know little steps matter, maybe, more than big steps, and I’ve learned faith in my own ability to stick with something.

I’ve crochet over ninety afghans for family and friends. I’ve crocheted them one little stitch at a time. I’ve cross-stitched countless samplers, one cross-stitch at a time. I’ve struggled with difficult patterns, unpicked mistakes, changed my mind about color choices. Each stitch has pulled, dragged, helped me through bad times, good times, times of stress, worry and plenty. Each stitch has blessed me ten times over as I’ve learned patience, determination, tenacity, starting over, redoing, perfecting. The exact skills I need for writing. 

Patience in Piecework

“It’s an old-fashioned cure for restlessness, my dear, in case you ever need it. Remember that it has been successful for hundreds of women. I’m no fool, am I? Well, I haven’t traveled without my tapestry since my girlhood, and you should see the splendid suites of furniture covered by my handiwork, testimonials to worries of all sorts. Whenever I have felt nervous, vaguely dissatisfied, irresolute, or frankly wretched, I have sat by myself. Each embroidery contains hundreds of stitches which are cross-stones of sorrow, the death beds of boredom. In many a gaily flowered seat, my happiness lies buried. People spend time and money being exorcised; psychoanalyzed, they call it, seeking relief for body and soul. I think that a good long mechanical task that requires a minimum of attention, and the soothing action of the hand as it dips over and under the canvas, is the very best means of pinning down our weaknesses and chloroforming them. Stitch the horrors down, my dear, and they shan’t return to plaque you; they are killed by the stab of the needle. Of course, during peaceful intervals, I have laid my work away for months, but when I need it, there it is, as convenient as a box of aspirins against a cold.”

—Anne Green, 16 Rue Corta Bert

   I found this quote in an old Peg Bracken book. I didn’t note which one when I copied it down in my writer’s journal and I’ve read them all. (I absolutely love Peg Bracken, even though she was a bit before my time (the 60’s) I was a teenager reading cookbooks/humor/housekeeping books. Needless to say, I was a strange teenager.) The sentiment in the quote spoke to me. More so in recent years, but down through the years the act of handwork or piecework, as they called it, has soothed me, paced me through worrisome nights of childhood illnesses, teen drivers, those many nights of a railroad widow/young mother and later—now, as a patient and a caregiver.

Doilies, afghans, hot pads, tea towels, samplers accent my home. Countless hours of handwork, but somehow, each item is more. A legacy, too, of my life, my mother, her mother, my best friend, Connie’s mother, of that generation and earlier generations. Of time spent in meditation, so to speak.

 I can’t pass by the handiwork at antique shops or fairs. I stop, inspect, marvel, covet. I know the work involved because I’ve done it, but more, I know the soul, hope and sorrow ‘pinned’ to each piece. There is history stitched along with skill and time. I love the vintage look but more, I love the story behind each piece, even without knowing the exact story details.  I know the story of my own handwork, and part of the story behind my mother’s, her mother’s, Connie’s mother.

I didn’t start out loving the hobby. I didn’t have the patience and maybe, that’s the thing with needlework. It takes patience. To learn the skill, execute the patterns, to finish the project. It doesn’t happen overnight but it teaches principles that I’ve used in every part of my life, but never so much as in my writing.

Gifts (11/25/2013)

We don’t receive wisdom; we must discover it for ourselves after a journey that no one can take for us or spare us. –Marcel Proust

It’s no wonder my mom and I became best friends. Friendships grow from shared experiences and circumstances, shared location and shared interests. We had all three. I was the only one still left at home when Dad died. I went through Dad’s illness along with Mom.

And after, while Mom was dealing with her own grief and fear, she had a daughter she had to look out for. I imagine that was an added worry and a gift.  I remember the first night after Dad died, my sister and brother went home with their spouses. I went home with Mom.

The house was so still as we lay together in the bed Mom had shared with Dad so many years. Neither one of us was willing to spend the night alone. Neither of us could sleep. Mom talked me down into sleep with whispered instructions I still remember. “Just relax your toes, sweetie. Concentrate on your toes. Now, your feet.”

I don’t remember what body part she reached by the time I fell asleep, but I remember the relief of that sleep. I was eighteen; she was fifty. Too young to face the next few weeks, the labyrinth of insurance, survivor’s benefits.

We couldn’t help but cling together a bit. I know I felt adrift, school was a blur and I sure didn’t feel like joining the Christmas doings there. I wanted to stay home, lick my wounds. And frankly, I was a little afraid to leave my mom in the house alone.

There was stuff to go through, decisions to be made, meals to fix, life to muck through. 

I was a rebellious teen, still, and ready to spread my wings and she was a little lost. I wish I had understood more…about everything. I didn’t. But life eventually brought us to the same place, circumstances, of sorts and we’d always had the same interests.

Like every other set of parents, ours gave us kids’ gifts. Do your best, take good care of your teeth, don’t leave home with dirty underwear-you never know when you might get in an accident, pretty is as pretty does, be polite. The two I appreciate most, are the love of music and the love of reading.  But Mom gave me three other gifts almost as important; gardening, cooking and needlework.

How could I know these five gifts would define me, save me and heal me?

Time

Time

Time has been the thing I struggle with the most. I dare to bet it is that way for most writers. We all fit our writing time between very complicated lives. I never expected or wanted to write ‘full time,’ but I have longed for a few quiet hours a day with no distractions.

No, I am not delusional…You know, that statement most likely doesn’t make sense when you factor in that I am talking about a writer. Writers work in delusion, right? Anyway, I digress.

I really thought, when I began my writing, a million years ago, that I could find those few quiet hours. After all, I nurtured, nursed and guided three boys to school age and I was blessed with being a stay-at-home mom. It was the perfect situation. While the boys were at school, my husband working on thirty or more hours, off twelve, I could spend mornings writing, afternoons keeping house, fixing meals, running the boys to their extracurricular activities.

Here it is, twenty some odd years later, and the best I can say is it did not go according to plan. I know, I know. I was to get out the message that I worked in the mornings and was not to be disturbed. I got the message out. I know, I know. I was not to answer the phone, the door, the cell. Done, at least most days. I was to put butt in chair. (If you look at my south end, you know I did that.) Every book, every article on writing tells you this. Heck, I can see that you must do these things. I am a firm believer in ‘don’t wish for it, work for it.

What no one tells you is how to get up, get those kids off to school, sit your butt in the chair when the person supporting the family and your writing has an on call job and the phone rings at two in the morning. How to balance all those little sticky problems that come up with family, neighbors, finances, difficult delivery companies or repair companies who no longer seem to accommodate the customer. No one tells you just how little your family, friends, neighbors take you that seriously. After all, you are home all day.

(Frankly, I really think the whole concept of writing, whether fiction or not, is hard for ‘civilians’ to get. It is hard to see the difference between sitting down to write and sitting down to ‘write.’)

I can’t even begin to say how angry I was for many of those first few years. At my family for not respecting my space, my writing, my wishes. (Guilt involved.) At someone reading my work that wasn’t ready for ‘other eyes.’ At the computer…acquiring one, learning to work it, relearning new technology, crashes, lost work. I was making myself crazy. I had so much to learn with the writing, the computer, the way publishing worked.

I can’t begin to tell you how many times I told my husband that it would be so much easier to just give up.

And…unfortunately, time has only gotten more complicated. I have more blessings, more titles: Wife, Mom, daughter, sister, grandma, caregiver for a breast cancer survivor and 90-something parent…chief cook and bottle washer. The list does go on, but you get the idea. 

And now, worse…It seems writers have more shoulds. They should Facebook, printerest, twitter, blog, goodreads, keep up with their favorite writers, blogs, network, promote and keep up with all the new ways of being published.

I don’t know how the writers do it. I really, truly don’t. And have a life.

At one time, I let this get me down. I’m realistic; I know I can’t do it all. I really can’t. And more, I don’t want to. When it’s all said and done, when I peel back everything but what I want to do, it’s simple. I just want to write. And have my sweet, little life. Maybe, that will be, is my downfall, too.

Yes, I want to be published, but some of this other stuff writers should do just seems like lint on velvet. White noise, busy work. I hate busy work.

I want what I want. And when I really look at the other side of it, because writers love to read, I want my writers, writing.

It’s true. It’s wonderful that I can contact the writer of my latest read, tell him how much I loved his book, read his blog, find out what’s happening with him any minute on twitter.

I’ll bet a writer loves to hear what a reader thinks of their book. I even feel compelled by a good read to send a writer that message, but new world of promotion has its price. The price is time

Clear back, all those twenty-something years ago, I made choices about my writing vs. my life. Maybe, those choices are the very reason I’ve not published a novel yet. I would hope not because my life always comes first. No, I think I needed those years to learn how to write, how to live. I wouldn’t change the life I’ve had or the time I’ve spent with loved ones (they are temporary, you know), but time just keeps stacking up behind me. Some of my choices now, are no choice at all. I am in the care giving for the long haul and for that to end means losing my parent, so that is what it is. I’m getting older, so life to, has a little more say on my time, too. I have to make more painful choices.

I’m going to be stingy with my time. I’ll spend most of my writing time, writing. Blogging and Facebook sparsely. It’s what I want my favorite writers to do, too. That’s what I want to do. That’s why I began that journey, all those years ago. 

Upgrade

If you do not get it from yourself, where will you go for it? –Alan Watts


I have to apologize for neglecting this blog. I had no intension of not writing. I value those few who followed me. Love writing the blogs, but lately…No, let me be truthful. It’s been since August 13 that I’ve written a blog. Before that, quite honestly, I was slowing down, running out of things to blog. I was getting bored…so of course, I was likely boring.

Well, even that’s not the complete truth. Frankly, I was running out of things I wanted to be honest about.

And there it is. Honestly. I’ve always tried to be honest in my writing. (Hey, a saint I am not.) I like the honest writer, warts and all, respect them, want to be one. Even when things get a little ugly, hard, sad, tough. In fact, I think that’s what I like reading best…and I suspect so do most readers. I want to write honest…except….I’m so private, painfully shy and come from a family that is the same. And the years since I started the blog have been riddled with life unexpected.

 Actually, the blog started from just that. So much of what was happening in my life, I felt like I had to be careful about what I said. After all, some of those involved might read it…might misinterpret what I said and take offense. The exact thing that so many writers writing memoirs run into. And I just wasn’t sure how to approach the more touchy things.

 I started the blog after recovering from MPGN, a kidney disease that I thought was going to do me in. It didn’t, but during the illness I got scared about dying and as I recovered I got even more scared about my writing. It seemed lost. I’ve written many, many (ad nauseam, truly)times of all that, but what I didn’t write about—the before that continued during and continues still. Caregiving…husband’s retirement, age, frustration, anger, rejections, fear, guilt. Oh, I’ve touched on the subjects, but…It’s difficult, private and complicated. It’s the underbelly of my writing.

 I made a decision to be up, to always grin and bear it, to be positive. And I stand by that decision still, but I think going forward I’ll try to write in a more honest way. After all, I’m still here, still writing, still caregiving, getting older, frustrated, angry, sometimes. And I still fear all the same stupid things. That’s a positive, right? And besides, I’m betting that there are more writers out there like me than writers that are never scared, never frustrated or anger, who have not a care in the world.

 First, the apology to those who read this blog, if there are any left. There weren’t many anyway, but I’ve purposely and quite abruptly stopped writing my weekly/twice weekly blog. It likely came as no surprise, as the blog posts were not up to snuff, in my view and had fallen off in frequency, too. I know this happens to blogs all the time. The blogger has moved on, changed, time problems come, boredom comes. Life happens, in other words.

But I’m still in this. I’m still frustrated by: by a frail elderly mother whose memory sometimes takes me down the rabbit hole with her, a husband who tries, really tries but thinks he is the exception to that rule: she’s writing, don’t bother her unless there is fire, blood or water. Sons who need babysitting help, advice, a shoulder and my mother-instinct kicks in and their needs come first. And of course, there is the needed down time, housework—I don’t have help-meals, shopping—life. But…truth of the matter, these are my blessings, too and I know it. These are the same things every other writer is dealing with. And I know that, too. There may be health issues, divorces, money issues, but we all have similar stories and I think, I hope other writers can get something from hearing about mine, still.
 • I’ll also start blogging about books I’ve read again. I’ll be recommending books I like. If I can’t say something nice about a book, I won’t say anything at all.
 • There will be recipes. I eat, therefore, I cook but more importantly, I read a lot of cookbooks. I read them cover to cover like a novel. I love cookbooks and it is just one of the things I collect with a passion. I’ll recommend those I love that have something that makes them worth owning. If I try a recipe and like it, I’ll write a post with the recipe. If I tweaked it, I’ll write about that. I tweak a lot of recipes. I have a huge collection, but my absolute favorite recipes are those that are easy. Easy is perfect for other writers, right? I mean other writers are trying not to starve, trying not to let their love ones starve. I love to cook(we all have to eat), but not if it interferes with that chapter I can finally finish. So simple, easy is good and something to pass on. Just another thing that I hope will help other writers, but if it helps moms, readers and anyone else, so much the better.
• I’ll post about any new thing, idea or book that helps me in my writing.
• I’ll post about ‘finds’. Down time includes antique malls and swap meets.
• I’ll post a little about my dog because that is another reason my blog posts have dwindled to nothing. New puppy, lots of training. I’m three months into potty training (that’s gone perfectly, knock wood), basic command training which includes heeling on our daily two mile walk. (Only tripped once. I no longer bounce, but I survived.) She’s got sit and down. We’re working on stay. She sleeps by the desk while I work.  Which is where I need her. She fills the void left by the dog before her and…there has always been a dog before her.